


Runaway

by Fran_fic



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gambling, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22840981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fran_fic/pseuds/Fran_fic
Summary: A mountain man gambles for the life of a runaway slave.
Comments: 38
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

The forest was a blur around him. There was a pounding in his ears and a wheezing sound from a chest that felt like it was about to burst with every painful breath, his mouth tasted of blood. 

He had no idea how he was on his feet at all, let alone still running, but fear pushed him in the back and forced phantom strength out of stick thin legs, pushing him beyond pain and fatigue.

Branches kept rushing toward him but he only managed to duck a few, the rest whipped him in the face. He wasn’t able to watch his step and his bare feet seemed to find every sharp twig, pinecone and jagged pebble in the woods. Again and again, he stumbled and nearly fell at agonizing pain shooting up his legs as he stepped on something else, but somehow he kept going.

He had to! If they caught him... they would hang him, burn him; whip him to death...

The two men who hunted him shouted to each other somewhere behind him, their horses crashing through the same branches that seconds ago had lashed his cheeks, coming closer and closer. 

Hanging, burning, whipping; hanging burning, whipping... He had to run, run, _run_...

He came to such a sudden and brutally jarring and painful stop that at first, eyes blinded with tears, he thought he’d run into a tree trunk, the wind completely knocked out of his agonized lungs, but it wasn’t a tree. 

Someone had stepped in his way and grabbed at him, a huge strong arm wrapped around his chest. 

His feet slipped away underneath him and he fell heavily on his back in the cool damp moss, his vision blurring. His lungs screamed, the world swayed and rocked, but no matter how his mind yelled at him to get back on his feet and keep running, he stayed down, sprawled on the ground like a discarded ragdoll at the unknown man’s feet. He couldn’t get up; he couldn’t even move his arms. There were no more strength to find inside of him, and he would burn, hang... die!

He closed his eyes to the nauseatingly spiraling treetops above him; he was almost too exhausted to care. 

The men on the horses reached them only moments later. 

“You caught our runaway,” he heard one of them say to the man who had stepped in his way, and who obviously wasn’t a member of their hunting party. “Much obliged.”

His captor didn’t answer.

“Well,” the man on the horse continued, a slight note of insecurity in his voice at the lack of reply, “we’ll take him from here then.”

His captor finally spoke up. “You will, will you? How so? Does he belong to you?”

“Uh, no... He ran away from one of the farms in the valley, we only offered to find him and bring him back.”

“Oh, I see,” his captor said. “And you’ve come all the way up into the hills only for such a little rabbit? Is there a reward for the trouble then?”

“There is... a... moderate reward, yes, so, we won’t bother you further, but take the boy and be off.”

“Now, now,” his captor argued, “that wouldn’t be right, now would it? I think it has already been established that I caught him first, so this ‘moderate reward’ should rightfully be mine, don’t you think?”

There was stunned silence at this declaration. “Now, look here,” the men finally protested. “ _We_ were given this job, and...”

“Well, it doesn’t much matter, does it? who was given the job, when I still beat you to it.”

Again, there were no words exchanged between the men standing above him, no doubt trying to stare each other down over the sound of his labored raspy breathing. He didn’t even open his eyes to this silent fight over him, still too exhausted to care who would call victory in the end. 

The outcome would still be the same for him. 

“Well, have the reward then,” the man from the valley finally spat. “Just looking at you, it’s clear you have greater need for those measly pennies than my brother and I.” 

“Yeah,” the other one added. “You want the trouble of dragging that little shit all the way down to the valley, then by all means, have those pennies, mountain trash!”

Again, his captor didn’t answer as the two men steered their horses around and he heard them depart. He was relieved they were going, but he wasn’t less terrified. A _mountain man_ had caught him, and had alone chased two men on horses away, just by staring them down? 

He hardly felt in better hands.

\-----o0o-----

Järv leaned over his catch and shook his head. Such a little rabbit, indeed, trembling all over, chased to near collapse it seemed, his heart nearly beating out of his skinny chest and his lungs wheezing still. He admitted he had rarely seen a need to run himself into such a depleted state, but he still knew what it felt like when it hurt to breathe, your mouth tasted of blood and your legs numbed with exhaustion, running after deer... or from bears.

He gave the boy a few moments. 

While his breathing stilled but the boy was still malleable from exhaustion, Järv turned him over on his stomach and grabbed at his shirt, tearing it almost all the way down to the boy’s waist. 

He winced, he really hadn’t meant to rip the little rabbit’s already tattered clothing, but the threadbare fabric was like cobweb in his strong hands. Well, there was what he was looking for, a large, ugly, pale brand burned into the boy’s shoulder blade. A farmer’s slave from the valley then, just as those men had claimed, which probably meant they hadn’t lied about the existence of a reward either. 

Järv paused, feeling how the boy trembled under his hand, as much from fear as from exhaustion, he suspected, and he was of a good mind just to let the poor thing go. 

However, something told him this reward wasn’t as ‘moderate’ as those men had claimed, and he had to admit their contemptuous observation of his lack of means had been on point. The hills were a cruel mistress, beautiful and wild she offered all the freedom you could crave, but none of the riches and securities. Those men, valley men, well fed and well clothed by the looks of them, had come all the way up here only for this scrap of a slave...? This reward must be quite substantial. 

He could use the money, he really could. 

Järv found a piece of string in one of his many ‘this and that’-pockets, pulled the unresisting slave’s hands behind his back, tied off his wrists and then helped the boy to his feet again. The rabbit swayed still with exhaustion and bled a little from a few ugly scratches in his face, but didn’t seem otherwise harmed. 

“Well, seems like you have to come home with me then,” he said, taking the boy by the arm, and steering him deeper into the woods. 

Though there had to be _some_ spark of rebellion in the rabbit, or he wouldn’t have run away in the first place, Järv gathered, the slave kept his mouth shut at this and followed meekly. He wouldn’t himself have gone so quietly to an unknown fate, but slaves might be different when it came to such things, he assumed, used to quiet obedience since birth, or maybe this one was simply smart enough to know when he was beaten... or to bide his time. 

Well, the boy might be trouble, but a rabbit was a rabbit and a bear was a bear and it wouldn’t hurt the bear to house a rabbit for a few weeks. 

Yes, Järv would venture down to the valley in a few weeks time anyway, for the annual spring market, to sell the pelts he’d trapped for during the winter, and the boy would have to endure his hospitality until then. He wouldn’t make the long walk twice. 

The farmer... well, the farmer would have plenty of slaves; he was sure; the man could wait!

\-----o0o-----

Darkness had fallen.

Järv sat at his crudely hewn table on his only chair in his low-ceilinged cabin and ate his evening oatmeal porridge out of a humble wooden bowl.

He had placed a bowl of the same content next to the boy he had found, as well, but the slave hadn’t touched it, so far.

The rabbit was hugging his knees in the corner between the fireplace and the log wall, not having uttered a single word since he’d been taken, staring at the floorboards between his dirty and battered feet only. Not that he could do much else.

Coming home, Järv had realized his houseguest would mean certain practical problems. Wouldn’t the rabbit try to run again? Most likely! It would present no bigger challenge for the boy either. Järv had to sleep, after all. He came and went, too, and could not sit here day in and day out and watch the boy, nor could he take the slave with him on hunts and hikes. 

Well, in the end he had solved it in the simplest and easiest of ways, by simply chaining the boy to one of the iron bars of the fireplace. 

The boy wore a chain around one of his bare ankles now, and couldn’t walk more than a few steps in either direction, not that he had tested the length of the chain. After crawling into the corner, he had not moved an inch, adding a seeming indifference at being chained to his overall sulky demeanor. 

He had accepted water offered to him, that was all, Järv’s hard-earned food was going to be further ignored it seemed. 

Well, go hungry then, Järv thought, giving the boy a displeased glare. Himself, he intended to go to bed and get a good night’s sleep. 

The small cabin only had one room, but Järv had built a screen wall surrounding the corner he preferred calling his bedroom and after taking a piss outside he now retired to this grand ‘master bedroom’ of his. It might be simple, but not at all uncomfortable. He’d collected enough goose down to fill a mattress fit for a prince for his simple bed, and he’d kept enough nice pelts for himself to have more than one cover to keep him warm. 

Those pelts sure came in handy at this time of year. Even if the spring sun warmed up the hills more and more each day, the nights were chilly still, frost covering grass, moss and leaves in the morning. It turned quite cold in his little cabin toward those frosty morning hours, after the last embers had gone out in the fireplace during the night... 

“Damn it!” he swore, as he threw the covers aside and put his naked feet back on the cold floorboards. He grabbed one of the extra pelt covers and rounded the screen to drop it over the boy still hunching in the corner. 

“Good night,” he muttered, before going back to his own bed.

\-----o0o-----

Not much had changed in the morning.

The boy had wrapped himself in the pelts, but was still sitting silently in the corner, showing him the same sullen expression in a face slowly scabbing over. Only the dark shades under his eyes had turned deeper. Hadn’t he slept at all? 

The bowl of porridge was still left untouched at the slave’s side, too. 

Finally, it was the sight of the ignored food that made Järv angry. You didn’t waste good food, mountain people, if any, knew that, and he would have thought a slave would too, not least considering how starved the boy looked. He _wanted_ to starve himself further then, thought death just another escape, perhaps? Oh no, Järv wasn’t going to let the rabbit off himself, or reject what he was given. He was not rich, he couldn’t afford to waste food on the ungrateful, and he _would_ have that reward, damn it! 

Trying to rein in his anger, Järv crouched down before the boy and held up the bowl of porridge. “You’re not going to eat this, are you?” he said. 

The boy was obviously not fooled by his attempt at restraint and the badly repressed anger in his voice. His eyes were enormous pools of pure fear in a thin face and the chain rattled under the pelts in his trembling, still… He shook his head. 

Järv was not going to stand for such defiance. He pulled the pelts down and grabbed the boy’s wrist, forcing him to take the bowl with the now cold and stale porridge. “I’m only going to tell you once,” he growled. “If I give you food, you’ll eat it! Understand? I’ll go and get more firewood, and when I come back, I want to see an empty bowl, or I’ll push the rest down your throat with a fucking broom handle, do you understand?”

The fearful eyes didn’t blink, thin fingers shook around the rim of the bowl, and the pale scratched face bobbed up and down in jerky nods. 

Oh, he understood, all right.

Järv returned a few minutes later, arms full of firewood, to see the boy desperately sucking porridge off his fingers, half of it already gone. Seeing Järv come back inside, the boy tried to stuff himself with ever more hurried movements, hardly having time to swallow before he pushed even more into his mouth. 

He put the firewood on the floor and walked up to the boy, watching him cowering and shaking over the bowl, still pushing fingers with sticky globs of porridge into his mouth. 

Järv couldn’t help the chuckle. “Calm down boy! I don’t want you to choke on it, or throw it all up again. I’m not going to force feed you the rest. I just don’t want you to waste my food, that’s all. This was a tough winter and I have precious little of it, you see?”

The boy did slow down a bit at this, and Järv let him eat the rest in peace and quiet while he warmed water over the fire to do the dishes, finally reaching down a hand to the boy in the corner, wanting the empty bowl back. 

Large eyes turned up to him as the boy reached up with the bowl. “Thank you, Sir,” he said. “I- I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean to waste your food, Sir.” 

Järv raised an amused eyebrow at the slave’s timid voice. So, the rabbit could talk, after all. “Oh, that’s all right, boy,” he graciously declared, taking the bowl and returning to the dishes. 

He could feel how the boy watched him while he was sloshing his few bowls and spoons around in the warm water, cleaning them with a coarse root brush, and after a few minutes, the slave seemed to have worked up the courage to speak again. 

“Sir, could I… Could I… ask something, Sir?”

Järv grinned a little. “By all means,” he answered, still feeling gracious and amused in equal amounts. 

In spite of this, the boy again remained silent for several minutes before he spoke the next time. “Are you…? I mean… What are you going to do with me, Sir?”

Järv’s amusement died out at this simple question. He could hear the fear and despair in the slave’s voice and he wondered not at it. The boy had no idea who he’d ended up with, after all. He rinsed off the last bowl, dried his hands on a coarse piece of cloth, and opened the door to empty the dishwater outside, before he returned to the boy and crouched down before him once again. 

“I mean you no harm, boy. I’m only going to take you back to where you belong. Apparently, there is going to be a reward paid out for your return, and those two valley idiots weren’t fooling me, it’s a big one, I could tell. It seems someone is missing you quite much, boy, and really wants you back, and _I_ really need that money. I’ll take you home again, safe and sound, that’s all, boy. It’s only it’s a long way to the valley from here and I’m going down to the spring market in a few weeks anyway, to sell my pelts, so I’m afraid you’ll have to stay with me until then. As long as you don’t cause me trouble, though, I won’t be hard on you. You see? No harm will come to you, and you’ll be just fine, boy, don’t worry.” 

The slave kept shaking his head to every word Järv was saying, his eyes as wide and miserable as before. “No, Sir,” he said. “No, I- I won’t be all right, I won’t… They’ll kill me, Sir; I swear they will. They- they… Please, Sir, don’t take me back, please!” 

He shook his head back at the boy, displeased once again. Why would anyone offer a big reward only to then kill the boy? No, as useless of a worker as the thin boy seemed to him, he was obviously valuable to _someone_. 

He knew it wasn’t uncommon that masters slept with the slave girls they owned and sometimes there were offspring from such unions. The law didn’t permit you acknowledged this offspring, but such a slave could still be dear to an owner. Maybe this boy was born from such a union. Most likely he was! What value could he otherwise have?

Yes, Järv thought, the boy might fear punishment being brought back, but he surely wouldn’t risk anything worse than a proper hiding, the kind that would leave no scars. What kind of man would kill someone of his own blood? No, the slave was only trying to manipulate him here, and Järv was not stupid. 

Those valley men hadn’t fooled him, and neither would this boy. 

“Oh, be quiet, boy,” he barked. “Stop whining! I will take you back and that’s that. I’ll have that reward, damn it, if it’s the last thing I’ll do, you hear? I’m warning you, don’t make trouble, or annoy me, or you’ll regret it! Now, tell me who your master is, so I’ll know where to take you.”

The slave swallowed his begging in a frightened gasp, but if Järv thought there was no more defiance in the boy, he was obviously mistaken. 

“I- I… I’m not going to aid you in my own fucking death,” the slave swore at him, even as he lifted his arms over his head in protection. “Go-go seek the bastard out yourself!”

“Why, you little…” Järv shook his fist at the boy, but let his hand sink to rest at his knee again. He wasn’t going to hit a chained boy, half his size, who obviously couldn’t defend himself. There were other ways to handle stubborn and troublesome creatures around you, whether it was a hunting dog, a market seller, or a slave... Always better to waste the strength of your mind, than the strength of your hands, Järv thought. 

“Well, if that’s the way it’s going to be…” he said. “It doesn’t matter, boy. You’re branded! Was it so painless that you’ve forgotten it? There will be people in the valley recognizing that mark, I’m sure. I’ll find out soon enough where to take you.” 

The boy’s arms sank from his head, but there were no more defiant words. Instead, the slave let his face sink into the pelts Järv had given him and burst out crying pitifully. 

Järv startled, finding neither words nor action to try to stem the deluge of tears before him. Feeling awkward, he rose to his feet again and backed away from the boy, leaving the cabin, to let him finish his crying in peace he told himself. Truth be told, a miserably howling dog Järv would have petted to soothe, a crying woman he would have put an arm around, but that boy he really didn’t know what to do with. 

Maybe, the slave was still only trying to manipulate him anyway…

\-----o0o-----

Järv had to admit, after that first morning the slave really wasn’t giving him much trouble. By all means, the boy wasn’t the cheeriest person around, but, Järv had to admit further, neither was he.

The boy obeyed orders without protests; rarely spoke unless spoken to, never smiled, but, thankfully, also didn’t beg or cry again, which reinforced his belief the boy had only tried to make Järv pitying him into letting him go. Well, the boy had learned fast enough Järv wasn’t going to fall for such transparent tactics, thus the improvement in behavior. 

Eventually, the slave had even answered a few of Järv’s questions. He had told Järv that the other slaves at the farm called him ‘Thistle’ because of his unruly hair, and as far as he knew, he’d never had a proper name apart from that. He also informed Järv that he was sure he was not younger than eighteen but not older than twenty and he was sorry he wasn’t able to be more precise than that. He claimed to have no idea who his parents were. 

When Järv asked what work he’d done at his master’s house, though, he’d only replied ‘menial tasks’, and had given likewise vague answers to other such questions, as well. 

Järv didn’t demand further details. The slave had not wanted to reveal whom his master was and was still determined not to give Järv clues, it seemed. Järv didn’t care, Thistle still had that brand, after all, and he was in no hurry to find out. 

He opted to talk to the boy less, and put him to work instead. The slave soon chopped his firewood, fed his donkey, stirred his porridge and fetched water from the well on a daily basis. 

He’d even put the boy to take care of the entire spring laundry, the boy scrubbing his clothes and cloths in the cold water of the creek nearby until his arms were red and wrinkled up to the elbows. It was hard work, and something that Järv truly hated doing, so he was only too happy to have the boy do it for him. He felt only a little bit bad at this. The slave was eating of his already very meager rations; after all, surely he was in his right demanding Thistle worked for it. 

Järv still ended up taking the laundry basket out of those red cold hands, watching the slave struggle to haul it up the steep creek bank, hauling it back up himself, knowing the mass of wet fabric would weigh more than the boy did. 

A week passed like this, then another, and they fell into a sort of quiet, almost peaceful, routine, that Järv had to admit wasn’t entirely unpleasant. He’d lived alone for such a long time, up here in these wild hilly woods; he’d forgotten how nice it could be to have some company. 

Thistle might be some kind of company, even as sullen and quiet as he was, but a _companion_ he was not. Järv was reminded of this every time he left his cabin to roam the forested hills, and had to lock the heavy chain around the boy’s thin ankle.

The slave never protested the chain, only crawled into the corner, wrapped the pelts around his slight shoulders and leaned into the warm stones of the fireplace with a faraway stare in those large dark-shaded eyes. 

Järv always ruffled his bristly mop of hair with a smile and promised he wouldn’t be long, but he never got a reply. 

It weighed on his heart, it did, thinking of the chained boy in his cabin while he roamed the hills as he pleased, freedom such a natural part of his whole being that he’d never, until now, even given it a single thought. 

Well, Thistle was born into it, after all. The boy had never had any freedom to begin with, and wouldn’t know what it was that he was missing. That chain… Thistle wouldn’t take it as hard as Järv would have… Would he?

\-----o0o-----

Thistle endured the mountain man’s large hand in his hair, and didn’t react to his promise to come back soon, pulling the pelts closer around him as the man left.

It was such a big and strong hand, it was hard to believe it hadn’t been used in violence against him… so far. Watching how the large man had to bow to walk out of his door, and how his broad shoulders nearly scraped the doorframe, it _wasn’t_ hard to believe he’d scared off those two men from the valley so easily. 

Who in their right mind would start a fight with such a bear of a man? 

Thistle sure knew to keep quiet and not annoy the big man that had captured him. He’d been stupid that first morning, when he had still been in such despair he hadn’t been able to behave, but it had changed into the more resigned kind of despair that he was used to, and he could control himself better now. 

He turned and twisted in the pelts and tried to find a more comfortable position, prepared to wait hours for the mountain man to return. The chain rattled at his movement and weighed so heavily on his leg, but his captor had given him cloth to wrap around his ankle, so at least it didn’t chafe. 

He was deceptively kind at times, this bear of a mountain man; sharing food from rapidly diminishing winter rations. Making sure the chain didn’t chafe, giving him pelts to wrap in for sleep, so warm and soft he had never felt the like in his life, not beating him for his defiant words and sullen manners, taking heavy burdens out of his hands to haul up a steep and slippery creek bank... 

Of course, it wasn’t kindness; it was keeping the goods in decent condition so that the reward would be paid out at its return to its rightful owner. 

Being on his own, Thistle did what he always did at such thoughts… gave in to anxiety and despair, and cried brokenly into the warm pelts. 

The heavy and humiliating chain didn’t matter, the warm pelts and the seeming kindness didn’t matter either, and trying once more to beg his captor not to take him back would be futile. That the mountain man obviously was not prone to cruelty and violence didn’t mean he was going to listen to a mere walking and talking tool, and the man needed the money for his own survival. Begging wouldn’t matter; tears wouldn’t matter… 

He was going to die!

\-----o0o-----

They were chopping and stacking firewood in the early morning, Thistle putting logs on the block, raising the heavy axe over his head and letting it fall, the cleaved parts falling to the ground around his feet. His mountain man captor picked them up and stacked them artfully in ever-growing piles, while Thistle reached for another log to put on the block.

His shoulders ached from lifting the heavy axe again and again, but he’d already denied it once, claiming he was fine with going on a little longer, when the mountain man had suggested they trade work for a while. 

The man had only shrugged, smiled and let him. He was probably insane, constantly turning his back on a runaway slave with a heavy axe. On the other hand, the mountain man was just as probably convinced the pathetic slave he’d caught would never dare attack him, which he, sadly, was damn fucking right about. 

It was still oddly satisfying to exhaust himself in this way and it was well worth the aches to get to slam the thick and heavy blade repeatedly into the tough logs. It was strange how you could imagine faces in a log, making eyes, noses and twisted mouths out of bark, knots and twigs. Faces like the brutal overseer on the farm, like the hateful mistress of the house, the valley men who’d chased him, the mountain man that had caught him... the face of his master and owner... 

Thistle’s arms trembled, and he let the axe sink, that particular log suddenly spared his splitting rage. His gaze dropped in shame, even imagining his master’s face in a log scared him so much he didn’t dare raise an axe against it. 

The mountain man turned to him. “Oh, just let me take over, will you,” he said, taking the axe out of his shaking hands. The man patted his shoulder when Thistle passed him to take over the stacking instead and smiled at him. “You’re very good with an axe, boy, you really are,” he said, putting a log on the block.

The man was so deceptively nice…

Their work was interrupted though, as there was a rustle in the bushes surrounding the small cabin, and a man stepped out of them, grinning and raising a hand in greeting. 

His mountain man captor obviously knew the man, and gave him a wide grin back. “Björn,” he said. “Long time, no see!”

The visitor grinned wider, as well, revealing several missing teeth, his tanned face crumpling into a myriad of wrinkles, not unlike the bark on the logs. He was both smaller and older than his own mountain man was, but was otherwise hard to distinguish from any such man Thistle had ever seen, dressed in the same coarse fabrics and leather, a bow at his back. 

Björn turned to Thistle and grinned at him, as well. “Have you gotten help in the house, Järv?” he said, peering at him curiously. 

Thistle cringed at the man’s intense scrutiny. 

“Help?” his captor said. “Yes, by all means, he’s quite good help, actually, but it’s only temporary, I’m afraid. He’s a runaway from a farm in the valley. I’ll return him when I’ll go down for the spring market.” 

“Oh?” Björn kept grinning, never taking his squirrely eyes off him. “Who lost this tiny critter then?” 

“I have no idea. He refuses to reveal that much about himself it seems,” his captor answered, grinning in return.

“So, what stops you from squeezing it out of him then?” Björn asked. 

“Nothing, really, I suppose,” his captor replied, casting Thistle a quick glance, “but I don’t want to hurt him for that information when I can so easily find out anyway. He’s branded; someone in the valley is bound to recognize the mark.”

Björn nodded.”Oh, I’ll know it for sure,” he said, looking cocksure. “I’m in the valley much more often than you, I’ve traded with the lot of them, and I have an excellent memory, if I do say so myself. Can I have a look?”

Thistle gasped and backed into the stack of firewood behind him, shaking his head in a mute plea. 

“By all means, help yourself,” the mountain man said, gesturing to his visitor to come closer. 

The visitor, Björn, walked up to him and stared demandingly, as if he expected him to just pull his shirt over his head and show the man. He wouldn’t! He wouldn’t obey them in this, they could beat him if they wanted, they could…

“This is a badly trained one, isn’t it?” Björn said, scowling at him, grabbing his arm. 

He fought it, as much as he had ever dared fighting anyone or anything, he fought this, squirming in the visitor’s hold, digging in his heels, and desperately trying to jerk his arm free. Not a begging sound came over his lips but he fought every step of the way over to the chopping block, where the man finally pressed him face down over the wood and pinned him in place with a frighteningly strong hand, completely ignoring his struggles. 

Even to an old mountain man he was too fucking pathetically weak, and in the end it was tears of humiliation spilling over, not tears of pain at his stomach pressing into the sharp edge of the chopping block. 

Bastards! Fucking bastards, the both of them! 

Björn pulled his shirt down from his shoulders and ran his fingers over his brand, making his skin crawl. It seemed an eternity before the man finally released his harsh grip and let him go. 

Thistle stepped away, red in the face, pulling the shirt up over his shoulders again, not looking at them. 

“Well?” his captor asked. 

Björn grinned. “Oh, I know that mark, all right,” he said. 

Thistle froze. He wanted to throw up; he thought he was really going to throw up…

“You do? Who is it then?”

Björn kept grinning. “I’m surprised you don’t know it, too. That’s the brand of one of the richest men in the valley, and one of the biggest bastards, too, if you’re to believe all the rumors, and there’s plenty of them, believe me!”

The red of Thistle’s face deepened. 

His captor frowned. “What kind of rumors?” 

“ _All_ kinds! He’s the Devil, they say, totally ruthless in business, looks down his nose at everybody, stingy and greedy as all hell. His wife is a good woman, though. She’s of noble descent even, but he married her only for her money.” Björn made a dramatic pause. “And I suppose he’s far from the first man who has taken a woman for her riches, but this one, this one they say is not interested in women, at all... Not in the least, if you know what I mean?” He winked at them. 

His captor only shrugged his shoulders at this. “Bah, it’s not like he’s alone in that either. I was to the big city over the hills in my youth. They have a brothel there, with only boys in it!”

Björn grinned even wider. “Oh, that might fly in the big city, my friend, but down in the valley… It’d be a huge scandal down there, you know. Oh, he’s mad at those rumors, all right, really, really mad.” 

Thistle swayed on his feet, fighting the nausea. He hadn’t told, he would swear to the gods he hadn’t told anyone, but there were still rumors? 

He was dead… He was dead, dead, _dead_ …


	2. Chapter 2

Thistle could see no way out of the situation he was trapped in. 

He was more and more convinced his captor wouldn’t be moved by pleas and tears and would most likely regard anything he said as mere lies. Blinded by the tempting reward, the mountain man would not listen to him, and Thistle _was_ only a slave, after all, that, in the end, a free man could never truly care about. 

Yes, the man was often kind to him, but Thistle had soon noticed that he was kind to his donkey, too. It didn’t mean that neither Thistle, nor the donkey, actually counted in the big scheme of things. 

Thistle would not try to plea with his captor again. He knew he was the donkey here, and he didn’t need the humiliation and despair of his ‘braying’ being completely ignored a second time. 

He didn’t believe that talking to the mountain man could save him. 

Running away again might and it was not as if he hadn’t thought of it every day since his capture, not as if he hadn’t constantly looked for a chance to slip away, but… so far he hadn’t dared an attempt. 

First, the mountain man was smart enough not to let his captive’s apparent docility fool him. The man still chained him to the fireplace every time he went to bed, or left Thistle by himself, and had not once neglected to do so. 

Thistle did not need to test the strength of either bar or chain to realize that he wouldn’t get out of it with less than that he chewed off his own foot like a fox in a trap. 

He might be able to slip into the dark woods, as, even unchained; the mountain man’s attention wasn’t on Thistle every minute of every hour. The man would turn his back on him to go take a piss in the bushes behind the cabin, or sometimes seemed so focused on whatever his hands were currently working on, Thistle thought the man might not even notice if he walked away singing at the top of his lungs. 

Thistle was not stupid, though, and a slave quickly learns to read the free people around them. No matter what it looked like, the mountain man was always aware of what went on around him. He would know if Thistle slipped away, he was convinced.

Besides, even if he did manage to slip away unseen and unnoticed while his captor looked the other way, where did he think he could go where a mountain man would not immediately find him? The man was a hunter, he earned his meager income by tracking the shy animals of the forest and he knew these hills and woods as he did the back of his own hand. 

Thistle knew _nothing_! 

He’d run from the farm in pure blind desperation, had walked on as blindly with the same desperation as only fuel and really had no idea how he’d ended up as far up into the hills as he had. 

He hadn’t watched where he was going, he had brought nothing with him, and he had had no plan, no idea of what to do, or where to go. He’d broken thin ice on puddles in the morning to drink the dirty water and torn half-rotten rosehips from thorny twigs, the only sustenance he’d been able to find, well aware he’d only barely managed to not freeze to death for the first two nights and would probably do so on the third… That was when the men from the valley had found him. 

Men from the valley had found him, after only two days, and they were as unfamiliar with the forested hills as himself. Preparing and planning this time wouldn’t matter, the mountain man would find him, too, and it would sure as hell not take him two whole days. Two hours, maybe… _if_ he got a good head start and was extremely lucky. 

No, running again could not save him either. 

With that, Thistle had run out of options, as far as he could see, and could do nothing else than prepare to die in a few days time. He told himself then he would compensate for a lifetime of powerless humiliation, fearful obedience, and near constant violation in one form or another, by walking into this end with at least a minimum of dignity.

This, his last plan, failed, when one morning his mountain man captor woke him up unusually early and told him it was time, they were going down to the valley… and Thistle completely fell apart.

\-----o0o-----

Järv knew the boy was scared to go back, but though his sullen mood had never changed during his stay, he’d seemed resigned enough to his fate, a fate Järv had been convinced wasn’t nearly as bad as the slave had claimed. Surely the boy had been lying, because he hadn’t at all acted with the desperation Järv imagined a man truly condemned to death would.

Well, waking the boy up to tell him it was time, he now did. 

Thistle completely fell apart on him, bursting out crying hysterically and crawling into the corner where he was chained to the fireplace, hiding his feet under him, refusing to be freed from the cursed chain. 

Järv was too strong for the boy to succeed with this, and he pulled the boy’s leg out and held it still enough to unlock the chain even as the slave furiously tried to kick at him with the unchained leg. As soon as he had managed this, though, the boy flung himself at the iron bar, wrapped his stick thin arms around it and refused to let go, kicking and screaming with all his might as Järv grabbed at him. 

He could have put a stop to the hysterical fit in a second, by simply knocking the boy out, or otherwise hurt him bad enough that he would let go of the bar, put enough fear in him to go silent and obey him, but Järv couldn’t bring himself to be so forceful. 

Järv endured the boy kicking his legs and screaming in his ear while carefully using his terrible strength to pry the boy’s arms loose only. 

He’d been forced to wrap a cloth around the boy’s wrist and lock the chain around it to make the crying and desperately resisting slave leave the cabin and follow him into the woods. In the end, he’d also lost a little bit of patience, in spite of himself, and finally roared at the boy to be quiet and not make another sound for the rest of their hike, or gods help him, he’d do something he would regret. 

It was still dark outside, only a pale sliver of a moon in the sky, when Järv led both donkey and boy, by rope and chain respectively, down the winding forest paths toward the valley. It was an unpleasant walk, the slave’s misery like a fourth presence walking with them, impossible to ignore. The boy might have quieted some at his angry order, but there was no way he was able to repress his terror in the same manner. 

Järv felt sick!

\-----o0o-----

Hours passed as they descended the hills, the sun rising over the treetops. They walked in silence, but for the occasional choked sounds of the boy trying to hide his frightened and miserable weeping from him.

It weighed heavily on his heart, it did. 

Järv had to admit that the thought of the money – the imagined sum big enough to keep him well sustained for a long time to come and help him through several harsh winters – might have blinded him to this terror before. Might have made him chose to believe that the slave’s sullen, quiet and complacent behavior meant there was none. 

It could be that he had been a bit too quick to believe the slave was in no real danger, but he felt trapped now by his own decisions leading up to this utterly uncomfortable situation, and really didn’t know how he could act differently today. 

He _had_ to go down to the spring market, he _had_ to sell his pelts, he had to replenish his food storage, or he’d starve next winter. He couldn’t leave the boy chained in a corner for several days; he hadn’t enough food left to leave with him. He could have let the boy go, but how long would he manage. Thistle would only be caught again, if he didn’t starve or freeze to death first, or ran into wolf or bear. 

Even if he had left Thistle in his cabin unchained, having convinced the boy to stay with him and bear the starvation until he came back with new rations, people would eventually come from the valley to look for him. He couldn’t keep the slave, it would be stealing, and the two men who had initially chased the boy knew who had him. Those men would have already told Thistle’s owner what had happened, and the only reason other men hadn’t been sent to his cabin already, was, Järv was sure, that the farmer, too, had understood he would bring the boy at the time of the spring market. 

He didn’t bring the boy now, men _would_ come! 

Terror walked as a fourth presence with them down the winding paths, and Järv no longer thought the boy was lying, but… what could he do? 

What could he do?

\-----o0o-----

In the end, Järv really could do nothing else than to lead the boy to the gate of the farm he had escaped, even though it became increasingly harder to ignore the boy’s miserable weeping behind his back, as well as the weak but desperate tugs of the chain in his hand.

He could do nothing else. He really couldn’t.

They might have been expected. As Järv approached the gate, two men approached it from the other side. One a middle-aged man in fine attire, most likely the rich farmer himself, the other a tall brute of a man who might be the farm’s overseer judging from the coiled whip he carried at his belt. 

Thistle obviously saw them, as well, and it sent him into another fit. 

The chain in his hand suddenly turned slack as the boy flung himself at his feet and threw his arms around his legs, crying brokenly into them and begging him not to let them take him. 

Järv looked down at the terrified boy at his feet and his mind raced for a solution, for a way to help. What could he do; what could he do…

Of course, there _was_ nothing to do. The men came up to them, the overseer leaned over and tore the boy off with a brutal grip of his arm and hair, cursing at him and promising him a world of hurt for the trouble he had caused them. 

“Seems like we have our runaway back, Sir,” the overseer said and pushed the boy toward the farmer, tearing the chain out of Järv’s hand. 

Finding himself before his master once more, Thistle froze and stared at the man in mute shock, seemingly unable to move or speak, not even to fall to his knees and beg. 

The farmer only coldly stared back for several heartbeats, then up came his arm, and with one vicious whack, he backhanded the boy in the face, hard enough that Thistle spun around and crashed to the ground, face down in the dirt, not moving. 

It took Järv all he had to stay put, his fist almost cramping around his donkey’s lead rope. The donkey made a startled sound behind him as the boy fell, jumping to the side, the tall pile of pelts on his back swaying, as if even he was shocked at what they had just witnessed. 

Only yesterday, Järv had still told himself that he would simply leave the boy, take the money, go to the market, and the whole affair would be over. Now he told himself that he would sure as hell _not_ leave this place until he had…

“Well, it seems I owe you much thanks, good man,” a voice spoke up in front of him. 

Järv snapped out of it and turned to the rich farmer, trying to school his face into an indifferent mask. “Of course,” he mumbled. Over the farmer’s shoulder, he could see the overseer pulling a seemingly boneless but moaning – thank goodness, there was a moan – Thistle off the ground and dragging him through the gates. 

He had to force himself to look away from the puddle of blood left in the dirt, to concentrate on the man before him. 

“Well, as I was saying,” the farmer went on. “I’m very grateful you brought him back. I was told by the pair of brothers I hired to find the slave that a mountain man caught him, and I had no doubt in my mind you would bring him in time for the spring market. Mountain men are honorable men, that’s what I told them!” The man grinned at him. “Well, many thanks again, my good man, and as I’m sure you are eager to take your pelts to the market, I suppose we will part here and…” 

“There is a reward, I believe,” Järv interrupted. “For bringing the slave back, isn’t there?” 

Stingy it was, he thought, remembering Björn’s words. Did he really think Järv would leave here without that reward? If so, that rich asshole had another think coming. 

“Uh… Yes, yes of course. It totally slipped my mind, but of course, there’s a reward. Why don’t we step into my office, and we will sort it out right away. Don’t worry, I’ll see to it your donkey is seen to in the meantime. Well, if you would like to come this way, my good man…” 

The rich farmer let him in the house through a kitchen entrance and into a very messy office behind this kitchen, piles of papers and books everywhere. He started to rummage through the drawers of a large desk, but keeping his back to Järv so his ‘guest’ couldn’t see what he was doing. He was also quite energetically rustling papers all the while as if he wanted to hide a certain sound, as well. “Oh, here it is,” he finally said, turning around and holding a pouch out to him. “One hundred Crowns, as was promised for the return of the slave.” He smiled and motioned for Järv to take it. 

Järv repressed a gasp with some effort. A hundred Crowns was a lot of money, really, it was. Giving it up might not be digging a very deep hole in a rich man’s pocket, but for a frugal man with simple habits such as himself, it was quite a sum. However, something told him that before the farmer had pulled that drawer and rustled with all those papers, there had in fact been a larger amount of coin in that pouch. 

“Oh,” Järv said. “Aren’t you quite mistaken, Sir. A mere hundred Crowns? That’s not the sum I was told. I’m sure you’re misremembering…”

The rich farmer’s face turned slightly red and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, but then… “You’re quite right, of course, where’s my mind.” He looked at the pouch he was still holding and quickly closed his hand around it. “Oh, I see now, I grabbed the wrong pouch… Just a second…” 

The farmer turned his back on him once again, pulled the same drawer, rustled the papers once more, and finally turned back to him, holding out what to every healthy eye would be the exact same pouch. “There, _five_ hundred Crowns, as was promised!”

Järv took the pouch, fighting harder this time to repress a gasp and remain seemingly unconcerned by the whole thing. He felt the weight of the coins as he slipped the pouch into one of his many pockets. Not that he trusted this man in the least, but if he had still held back some coins, it couldn’t be very many. He would keep on the man’s good side, and not rudely count the coins in his face. 

Damn! So that was the original reward? Oh, he could live decently off that kind of money for several winters! However…

“I have to say,” Järv said. “I was surprised at being told this sum. That slave didn’t seem that valuable to me. You’d pay such money only to get that little runt back?” 

“Oh, you’re quite right, that slave isn’t even worth a fraction of that sum. I wouldn’t pay fifty Crowns for such a slave at the market.” He gave up a contemptuous snort. 

Järv gave the man a questioning scowl. Then why…?

The rich farmer gave him a mean grin in return. “The risk is not in the loss of such a worthless slave, the risk is in the rest of your slaves getting ideas. You simply can’t let a slave get away with running from you. I didn’t pay to have the _slave_ back; I paid for the opportunity to set an example for the rest.” 

“Set an example…?” Järv felt a cold lump forming in his stomach, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear this, but he knew he needed to. 

“I’ll hang him,” the farmer simply declared, the evil grin never leaving his face. 

“Hang… him...?” 

“Oh yes, and I’ll make sure it won’t be a drop. I won’t stand for snapping that twig neck of his only, that little shit won’t get away so easily, oh no. I’ll have the overseer haul him up against the barn wall! That will be a slow enough strangle to make the little snake regret ever defying me a hundred times over before he dies!”

Järv’s head swam. Oh he had been so wrong, so very, very wrong, and he should have just listened to the poor boy on that first morning when Thistle had damn well _told_ him this horrible man would kill him if he was brought back. 

It took all he had to pretend further indifference at such abject cruelty being spoken of so casually. 

“I see your point,” Järv said, “about setting examples, but… It just seems a waste to me. I understand he’s hardly of value to a farm such as this. He’s the sorriest excuse for a field worker I’ve ever seen I grant you that. However, such a little runt is actually useful to a household as small as mine. I have to admit I’ve gotten quite used to having my chores done for me these last few weeks, and it suits me just fine that he is as small as he is, as he won’t eat me out of the house either. 

“How about it, good Sir, if I return a substantial part of the money you just gave me, would you let me have the slave? It would really help me out, and I’m sure it wouldn’t make an actual difference to you, or the order of this farm. I saw your overseer, after all, and I’m sure your other slaves won’t need a better reminder not to take off than having that man around.” 

The rich farmer stared at him in surprise at first, but then burst out laughing. “Oh, I admit it stings quite badly having to part with that money, but… No, good man, you keep that sum and buy yourself another little runt at the market if you’re in such a need of one. I’m quite, _quite_ determined to see this one hanging, you see.” 

Järv was stunned. How could he have ever thought this man wanted the slave back because he valued him, and would even worry about the boy? How could he have thought the farmer might even be the boy’s father? Had he been so utterly blinded by the hope of this reward? The weight of the pouch in his pocket now seemed like the heaviest burden he had ever carried and he’d gladly give it all back if he could only take Thistle away from here. 

However, it was clear, even as notoriously and infamously stingy and greedy as this man was, having the money back would not make him spare the boy. This couldn’t be only about ‘setting examples’, this level of hate must be personal. What on earth could poor, timid, little Thistle ever have done to this powerful and rich man that he would want to kill the boy in such a cruel and vindictive way?

Oh… Björn had already given him the explanation, hadn’t he? He’d said the rich farmer was only interested in other men, and was angry his inclinations were gossiped about throughout the very conservative valley. Järv thought he knew now who the rich farmer had ‘played’ with to create these rumors, and who he now wanted to permanently silence not to make them worse. 

Suddenly it didn’t seem so odd this farm would have kept on such a weak little man. It wasn’t tough muscles or working skills the farmer wanted here; it was delicate limbs and a set of large and very pretty eyes…

He nearly choked on the realization of what a truly evil bastard was standing before him. This man had raped and violated a defenseless slave, maybe since childhood, until poor Thistle hadn’t been able to stand it anymore and had ran in sheer desperation, and now he blamed the boy for the valley’s dislike of him, and wanted to kill the slave for ‘rejecting’ him. 

Järv looked away. How could he ever hope to sway this man from such an evil deed? He was afraid that he simply couldn’t and that he would be forced to leave here, weighed down with blood money, and living the rest of his life knowing he had killed that innocent boy, as surely as if he’d put the noose around his neck with his own two hands… 

…and that’s when he spotted it.

\-----o0o-----

There, behind the farmer, on the floor, almost hidden behind a tall pile of ledgers and rolled up papers, were something leaning against the wall that he recognized from his visits to the big city beyond the hills in his youth – a folding playing card table with a green felt top!

“You play?” he asked, pointing behind the farmer. 

The farmer turned around, looked at the table and eyed the green felt with a wistful sigh. “Ah, yes, well… I _used_ to.” 

“Oh, but not anymore, how come?”

“My wife, who between you and me is a bit of a nag, doesn’t like gambling, and… Well, you know how it is. Sometimes you simply have to sacrifice _something_ to get a moment’s peace and quiet in your own house. Besides, I seem to have trouble recently finding people to play with.” The man grinned smugly. “It could be I have a bit of reputation in the valley, of winning too often.” 

Järv forced a similar grin. “Your skills have scared them away.” 

The farmer laughed. “Right you are, my good man, which has forced me to put the table away, sadly.” There was another wistful sigh. “You are familiar with card games yourself then?” the farmer asked, suddenly not so eager, it seemed, to quickly get rid of the crude mountain man, after all, finally having found someone to discuss what looked like his favorite pastime with. 

“Oh yes,” Järv answered. “Of course, I haven’t played in years, but I used to visit the big city beyond the hills in my youth, and back then, you couldn’t tear me away from the tables. Nearly lost every pelt I had, on several occasions.” He let up an embarrassed laugh. 

“Is that so…? Well, it just so happens that my wife went to the market and won’t be back for several hours, so, what do you say...? How about we fold up this table and have a quick round, or two?”

Järv raised his eyebrows. It was true, when he had seen the table he had hoped it meant a sort of opening for him, an excuse to stay longer to find a way to help the boy, maybe a chance to exploit a gambling interest, but he would never have thought it would be this fast and easy to persuade the man. In fact, he hadn’t needed to persuade the rich farmer at all, the man had himself suggested it. 

He was _that_ obsessed with the game then, this eager to get to play, even with a poor mountain man? 

Of course, Järv thought, feeling the weight of the five hundred Crowns in his pocket, this particular mountain man was, for the moment, not as poor as his kind usually was.

Järv snorted contemptuously. “You’d invite _me_ to a card game…? I see… Something tells me it’s not just a friendly game you want, good Sir. Something tells me you will suggest next that we make it about money, to make it ‘more exciting’, more of a ‘manly challenge’, because you’re hoping to win back at least some of the coin you just gave me.”

The rich farmer’s face fell, obviously not having expected the crude mountain man would see through him so easily. “Well,” he said. “You can’t blame an economical man for trying, can you?” he tried, grinning in hope his ‘guest’ would see the humor in it, no doubt. 

Järv, again, forced a smile. “I suppose, I can’t,” he said. “I tell you what. I’ll bet the whole sum you gave me, five hundred Crowns, in one single round… _if_ you, in your turn, will bet the slave. One round, and either you, or I, will walk away with both the slave _and_ the money! What do you say?”

The rich farmer stared at him with an inscrutable expression and Järv’s heart beat hard in his chest; he played a risky game. If the farmer turned him down, the boy would die and there would be no other chance to save him. Even if the farmer agreed, he might just lose, and would, indeed, be forced to walk away from here with no money, _and_ knowing the poor boy would be dead before the day was over, as well. 

However, what else could he do? The slave couldn’t be bought with the only sum he had, the rich farmer obviously had no sense of mercy he could appeal to, he had no legal standing here, and the farmer had the right to hang the boy. He was outnumbered to take the boy by force. A direct challenge, one that would threaten the rich farmer’s greed and pride if not accepted, was the only chance he had. 

The farmer’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What is your interest in this boy?” he asked. 

“None,” Järv replied. “I simply don’t agree with sending what is still a human, a mere child, to such a horrible death in such a disgustingly casual manner as you just did, _good_ Sir, especially when the poor runt obviously have done nothing to deserve it. I just can’t abide cruelty that is all.” 

The farmer’s eyes narrowed even more. “Well, that is none of your business, mountain man. The slave is mine to deal with as I see fit. You have your reward, now, please leave!”

“Come now, Sir, I thought you were a skilled player. You are as good as you say, why would you be scared of a single round of cards with a mere mountain man, who hasn’t touched a card in decades, and rarely won when he did? You’re making me seriously doubt the reason you can’t find people to play with these days. They’re scared to lose? Bored is more like it. Laughing behind your back at your ‘skills’, maybe; finding no challenge in taking coin from you? I’ll make sure to ask around at the market when I retell this story.” 

“You…” the farmer fumed, too angry to get another word out, hands fisting at his sides. 

“Just play a round with me, Sir,” Järv argued further. “What do you have to lose? If you win, and why wouldn’t you, you will have your precious coin back, _and_ the pleasure of enjoying that poor thing’s painful death, as well. Whereas if I win, you would have already given that money away, and I’ll take the boy far up into the hills, where he will never have a chance to speak to anyone, I’ll make sure of it. What do you have to lose, other than your reputation as a fearless player, and what do you have to fear… Oh, other than forever being called a coward at the gaming tables, that is.” 

The farmer wordlessly fumed at him a bit longer but then… “All right then, mountain man! A single round it is, and… I’ll bet the damn slave.”

Järv smiled. “Glad to hear it, Sir. Now, would you also please ask your overseer to join us at the table and tell him of the arrangement, as well? I’d rather have a witness to this entire affair, if you don’t mind?”

“Who in the Devil’s name are you, mountain man; a demon of the woods?”

“I’m just simple man, good Sir, who looks after his own interests, just like you. Now, shall we turn this table the right side up?”

\-----o0o-----

Knees shaking and stomach still rolling, Järv stepped outside the kitchen door the rich farmer held up for him, head down, a hand clasped to his belly, the overseer right on his heels.

Maybe it _was_ true that people were scared of the farmer’s skill, because the man had, indeed not been a bad player. Järv, on the other hand, even though he had lied about often losing his pelts in the big city, really _hadn’t_ touched a single playing card in about two decades. 

Sitting down at the now upturned table with its green felt top, he had indeed much more to lose than the farmer, and was seriously handicapped by the mere fact that he cared about that poor slave. Angry, but confident, the farmer had sat down at the table, expertly shuffling a well worn deck of cards, before dealing their first hands, while, Järv’s hands had been positively shaking receiving them, knowing he was playing for Thistle’s life…

“…and don’t come back!” the farmer yelled, slamming the kitchen door close behind them in his helpless anger. 

Järv raised his head and exhaled, a triumphant grin breaking out on his weathered face as he squinted at the sun above. If he hadn’t so quickly recalled his winning tactics from all those years ago… if the farmer hadn’t played with such reckless overconfidence, too sure of his skills to pay attention to said tactics… Järv wouldn’t have known _what_ to do! 

His knees shook still, and it would be a few minutes more before that rolling feeling in his stomach settled, but… He _had_ won.

Thank the Gods, in the end; he had won. 

“Well,” the overseer muttered behind him. “I guess I’ll just show you to the slave then…”

\-----o0o-----

To say that Järv was angry at the state he found the slave in would be an understatement, but there was no use in showing it, or stir up more trouble around here. Thistle was alive, that was all that mattered, and he would take him away from here right away.

The overseer had stripped the boy nude and hung him by his wrists from a branch in a tree overlooking the barn wall, a barn wall with a large hook that they had hung a noose from, and then they had lashed the boy.

Not severely so, obviously, they had not wanted to risk killing him before that devil of a farmer had his pleasure seeing the boy hang. 

Thistle was still bleeding from several of those lashes, and he hardly seemed responsive as Järv cut him down, his eyes still closed hard to that noose right in front of him. 

“I’m so sorry, boy,” Järv murmured to him as he carefully wrapped Thistle in a blanket from his donkey and lifted him up. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated as he walked away from the farm with the boy still in his arms. “I should have listened to you from the start, and I’ll be forever sorry that I didn’t, but… It will be all right, now, Thistle, you hear me? I’ve got you now, and you will never have to see this place again…”

\-----o0o-----

Järv had made camp just outside the large spring market, on a field dedicated to such overnight visitors, and had raised a simple windbreak for them to sleep beneath. He’d tied his donkey to a pole nearby, too, and made sure Thistle was well tucked into several blankets under that windbreak.

The boy was still both shocked, exhausted, and in pain from the lashing and would need to rest for the duration of the market to manage going up the hills again. 

Earlier, Järv had cleaned and dressed his wounds while explaining to the boy what had happened, and why he now mustn’t worry but believe that he wasn’t in danger anymore, and did no longer belong to that horrible man. Järv tried to assure him, he now knew the truth and would see to it Thistle was safe from now on. 

It was hard to tell if the boy at all believed him, or even understood what he was saying. Thistle hadn’t spoken a word, not even to ask questions. He had only looked at Järv in astonishment, with those large unblinking eyes, before turning in the blankets and closing them again. 

Maybe he too would have been in such a shocked and passive state had he just escaped death so narrowly, Järv, thought. He didn’t pressure the boy. Järv left to do his business, speaking with old friends, selling his pelts and buying the supplies he, and Thistle, needed, returning regularly to his tiny camp, to make sure the boy was all right, and ate properly. 

Three days later, on the last day of the market, Thistle seemed to have recovered enough that he sat up and ate on his own accord, his eyes no longer dazed and confused, but he still wasn’t speaking. Järv feared Thistle might never be able to forgive him for what he had done to him, something he could hardly blame the boy for.

He still smiled at Thistle reaching their camp, hoping what he’d brought hidden under his coat could cheer the boy up at least marginally. 

This something didn’t at all agree with his hiding place, and squirmed and whined to be set free, tickling Järv’s stomach. 

Thistle looked at Järv’s coat come alive in astonishment, and grinning widely Järv finally opened the coat to reveal his secret, putting a very energetic puppy in the boy’s lap. 

His hunting dog had died last year after fourteen years of companionship, and was still greatly missed, but Järv thought it was high time that he got himself a new friend to accompany him on hikes and hunts. 

“All mountain men must have a good hunting dog,” he said. “I thought you could help me raise him, what do you say?” 

The puppy trampled around in Thistle’s lap with its big clumsy paws, buffed Thistle’s stomach with his big nose, gnawed on his arm and lastly reached up to lick him all over the face. 

Järv held his breath, Thistle still wasn’t much reacting… but then the boy carefully put an arm around the puppy and pulled him close again when the little rascal tried to leave his lap, and though he still didn’t say a word, and still didn’t look up at Järv, Thistle finally smiled at the puppy.

\-----o0o-----

They left the market early next morning, Thistle trailing after Järv and his donkey with the puppy in his arms. As soon as they were out of the valley and into the woods, though, where they were alone, Järv halted and let the donkey graze the edge of the path, turning to the boy who looked at him in worry.

“Thistle, I need to speak with you, and I want you to listen very closely, you understand me?” 

The boy nodded, looking no less worried. 

“You’re not my slave, boy,” Järv started. “Do you understand? I might have ‘won’ you in a card game, and the farmer might have given me papers, but that’s not how I see it. I played for your life because it was the only way to save you, and because I owed you for not listening to you before. _You_ don’t owe me anything, though, and certainly not yourself as my property. I know I can’t really compensate you for how I treated you before, but know this, as far as I’m concerned we are both free men! if it’s ever needed I’ll make sure to get it in writing, too, even though I sadly don’t master that particular skill myself, but there are magistrates in the valley, and… Well, all I’m saying is, you’re not my slave, you hear, and I’m not your master!” 

Thistle stared at him, the boy’s eyes never as large and stunned as in that moment. He drew the puppy closer to his chest and spoke the first words in four days. “You… you’re chasing me off?” he gasped. 

“What?” Järv gaped, that wasn’t what he’d meant. “No! No, I’m… Well, if you _want_ to leave, I won’t stop you, of course I won’t but… I can understand if you wouldn’t want to stay with me, after everything I’ve done to you, but… I was hoping that… I don’t have much to offer you, Thistle, but you’ll have a roof over your head and what little I have, I’ll share with you. The only thing I’d ask of you is that we share the work fairly, you understand? You do your part; you can come and go as you please. I will never ever chain you to the fireplace again. I swear it. I… I need a… friend, you see, not a slave, but... I won't stop you if you want to leave.”

“I… I _can’t_ leave,” Thistle said. “I can’t manage, I have nowhere to go, I know nothing…”

Järv sighed. “I know, boy.” He understood how worthless his grand and gracious words must sound to a boy who couldn’t afford to make the choices Järv was giving him. He smiled. “Well," he said. "You’re young; you’ll grow still, you and the puppy. I’ll raise and teach the both of you, everything you need to know to manage, then, in a few years, you can choose again. What do you say?” 

Thistle was positively gaping at him now, but finally he nodded solemnly. “Oh… All right,” he said. 

Järv grinned and persuaded the donkey to leave its chosen patch of grass with some effort. “We had better get going then, so we’ll be home before dark.”

\-----o0o-----

It took Thistle a moment to snap out of it, watching the broad back of his captor… no, his _savior_ , walk up the path, struggling with the well-packed donkey, who didn’t at all agree the pause was over, but then he changed the squirming puppy over to his other arm and ran to catch up with the man.

Could he believe a word of what this man was telling him? Thistle really didn’t know, but he couldn’t see what he ever had to lose by coming along. At worst, he’d be the slave of a _kind_ man, a man who thought his life had value enough to bother to save, would work side by side with him, share his food, and give him a _puppy_. At best, he might one day walk away by his own choice, as a _free man_ , knowing things free men knew. 

The puppy gnawed on his arm then unexpectedly squirmed so wildly Thistle lost his grip of him. The puppy ran off up the path, yapping excitedly and finally caught hold of the donkey’s tail between his teeth, pulling with all his might, the donkey protesting the rude treatment with a loud braying. 

Both Järv and Thistle burst out laughing at the hilarious sight, Thistle quickly scampering over to save the poor donkey from the assault, taking the puppy up in his arms again. 

“He’s a real rascal that one,” Järv said with a wide grin, but then he reached a hand out and ruffled Thistle’s hair. “It’s nice to see you laughing, boy,” he said, turning to continue up the path again. 

Thistle was shocked at the sound himself. He couldn’t remember when he’d last laughed, if ever. 

He hugged the puppy close to his chest again, maybe, just maybe, even with free men’s knowledge; he would never want to leave.

Maybe he’d want to be a mountain man, too.


End file.
